The Girl of Sand & Fog (29 page)

Oh crap.

My gaze shifts to find Mrs. Barton glaring at me
in disapproval. Like I could have foreseen this. Sorry to ruin your day, Mrs.
Doubtfire.

“Roger that,” Graham says into his headset.
“We’re moving.” He turns toward me, gesturing with an arm. “Your dad is safely
inside the hotel. Come on, Kaley. Out of the car. Don’t stop. Don’t talk to
anyone. Into the building, the elevator, then the room. Dillon and I will be
with you every step.”

I stare at the broad back clad in black just
outside the door. Dillon; yep, I recognize those shoulders. It could be worse.
At least Alan gave me a security team made up of two hotties.

CHAPTER 26

Three
weeks later

“Kaley,
stop pretending you’re asleep. Get up. Get dressed. Mrs. Barton says
now
.”

I roll over in bed, glare at Krystal, and fling
off my blankets. “I’m not going. I am not spending another day seeing the
sights of the globe in a traveling freak show to please decrepit nanny from
hell. Nope. Can’t. Won’t do it. I am not going today.”

My sister drops heavily down on the bed beside
me. “Why do you have to be difficult about everything? It’s not like you have
anything better to do.”

Well, that was way harsh.

“Where’s Alan?”

“Still sleeping, and he doesn’t want you bugging
him. Dad has a concert tonight.”

I check my phone. “It’s 9:30. I’m allowed to bug
after nine. And if he doesn’t like it maybe he should try getting back to the
room earlier the night before.”

Krystal’s eyes widen, confused. “What’s that
supposed to mean?”

My cheeks heat.

Oh crap, I shouldn’t have said that, especially
since I don’t really know anything, it’s just suspicions in my gut eating at
me, and Krystal all-out idolizes Dad.

Nope, shouldn’t throw in her face before her
Cheerios that I think Dad is screwing around on Mom with that hideous Jen. That
would be just plain wrong.

A lump rises in my throat.

Why doesn’t Alan just call Mom? Fight it out.
Yell it out. Or something. They haven’t talked since we left California and
it’s driving me almost crazy since I don’t doubt Mom is a total mess. Damn it,
Alan, swallow your freaking pride and call Chrissie already. I can tell he
wants to—Jen is so not a solution to anything—and the waiting to know what’s
going to happen with them is fifty percent of my unrelenting anxiety.

Fifty percent wondering if I’ve ruined my
parents’ happiness forever. And fifty percent wondering why Bobby dumped me, if
he’s seeing someone else, and if I can fix it.

Damn, now I’m hyperemotional again.

I let out a ragged breath, grab a sweatshirt from
the floor, and pull it over my tank top. “Go back to Mrs. Barton and tell her
I’m not going. Have fun without me.”

Krystal hurries out of the room and a few minutes
later I hear the hotel suite door open and close. Good. Gone. I knew Mrs.
Barton wouldn’t come in and try to argue toe-to-toe with me. She’s happier when
I don’t join these fun educational outings she loves to plan for
our
benefit—
not.

I can tell we’re just doing shit she wants to.

OK, how do I figure out a way to stay here?

I march down the hallway to my dad’s room, knock
once loudly, and enter.

“I’m not going on another Bataan Death March all
day with Mrs. Doubtfire.”

Alan jerks up from his pillow and checks the
clock. He turns over in bed and uses his fingers to push the hair from his face.
“Bataan Death March. Wrong country. That’s the Philippines. We’re in Australia.
Melbourne is an interesting city. You are going today. You want to be a
filmmaker—go learn something. I need quiet and sleep, so you get sightseeing
today.”

I roll my eyes.

It’s so annoying when Alan takes my sarcastic
comments, dissects them, thinks it’s funny to correct me and gets a subtle jab
in himself.

Learn something.

Very funny.

We both know Mrs. Barton is full of crap and
doesn’t know shit about anything. Who’d want to learn anything from her?

I cross the room and drop down heavily on the
edge of his bed. “I’m too old for a nanny. You do realize that, don’t you? Or
do you just get off embarrassing me?”

My dad sits up, reaches for his cigarettes, looks
at me, grimaces and then tosses them back down on the night table.

“Mrs. Barton isn’t here for you, Kaley. The
security detail is. It sucks being an Internet sensation, doesn’t it?”

“This is ridiculous. I don’t want to go with
them. I don’t need security every time I leave the suite. Mom wouldn’t make me
live this way. She’d know it was lame.”

His jaw clenches—wrong move mentioning Mom this
early in the morning—and he climbs from bed.

“Maybe, but your mom isn’t here,” he counters in
a clipped voice.

My stomach turns.

Why won’t they just start talking to each other?

I can’t take it anymore.

“And whose fault is that?” I exclaim, running
from the room and slamming the door closed between us before he can aptly point
out that it’s my fault.

I go into my room, dress for the pool, and shove
my stuff into my tote. Not staying here. Not fighting with Alan again. I don’t
need one more thing to feel badly about.

I brush the hair from my cheeks and realize I’m
crying. Crap. It’s just all the uncertainty, but I can’t stand being girlie and
weak.

Grabbing my sunglasses from the dresser, I hurry
out of the suite. I’m immediately stopped in the hallway.

Graham Carson rises from the chair he sits in
outside the door. “Going somewhere?”

I groan. “Don’t give me crap. Not today. I’m not
in the mood for it.”

Graham does a fast once-over of me then frowns.
“Are you OK?”

“I’m fine. I just want to get out of here. Can
you take me to the pool?”

Graham nods. “Sure. Your wish is my command,
Princess.” His eyes twinkle. “At least until they stop paying me.

He grins, full dimples, and winks—he’s so
sweet—but it’s not helping. I still feel lousy.

I shove my glasses high on my nose instead of
wearing them low, California-style, and march toward the elevator. I bounce
against the wall as I wait for the doors to open.

There is an immediate stir when I step out onto
the rooftop patio. I wish everyone would just leave me alone. I make my way
around bodies, tables, loungers and the pool, trying to find someplace to
settle not too out in the open.

From the corner of my eye, I see Linda Rowan
sitting at a table with her trendy pack of gal pals from the tour, laughing and
tossing down Bloody Marys, whooping it up even though it isn’t even noon yet.

Nope, not joining that party. Linda has been no
help in fixing my dismal circumstance with Bobby. She won’t even give me the
details on why he dumped me—I still don’t know, not really, since it wasn’t
bullshit and he hasn’t answered a text or taken a call since I left
California—and darn if Linda isn’t tight-lipped about everything for the first
time ever.

We used to be close. I know he’s her son, and
that first priority garbage is in play but, crap, she could toss me something
without betraying Bobby to help me make sense of what happened.

I move quickly past her and decide on the two
vacant loungers
across the pool out of view
from her.
I plop down and start taking the junk from my bag as Graham stretches out on
the chaise beside me.

“Have you had breakfast yet?” he asks. “Do you
want me to order you something?”

I shake my head, not looking at him, and start
clicking away on my laptop.

“You need to eat, Kaley,” he chides.

“What? Are you a nanny, too, these days? First
bodyguard and therapist, now nanny. So versatile. You’ll be in high demand in
no time.”

He grins. “I’m in high demand always,
sweetheart.”

I pucker my lips to keep from smiling but, damn,
my cheeks are a little warm. Flirty and sexy today. He’s in a good mood. 

I’m not interested.

But I’m not blind.

And it is a prop to my wounded ego that this
nice, very hot guy likes to verbally tease me.

It’s undeniable.

Graham is an all-out chick magnet and I’m
starting to worry he’s more into me than he should be. In fairness, I do send
him the wrong vibe sometimes, on purpose. It just feels good to have this great
guy want me since my guy broke my heart.

Not that I’m over Bobby or want anyone else.

But there’s that static between Graham and me.

It feels good. Nothing makes me feel good these
days. It’s not wrong since I am flying solo now and it’s not unfair unless I
cross the line into something I know I don’t really want.

Ignoring the naughty comment, I continue to click
away. “If you want breakfast just order it. And don’t try that lame ploy of
getting what I like thinking I’ll pick at your plate. I’m not on some pathetic
hunger strike to get my dad to bounce me from the tour and you don’t have to
worry I’m going to waste away. I’m really not hungry today. Dillon must have
been on duty last night because if you’d been in the chair outside my door you would
know that I ordered room service last night at 4 a.m. and scarfed like a pig
until morning.”

He laughs and calls over a waiter. Good, his
all-seeing eyes are occupied elsewhere and not on what I’m doing.

I quickly access my e-mail. Nothing. Rapid click
into Facebook. Usual crap on my page. Nothing on Bobby’s. Fuck, it’s like he’s
gone off the grid and I don’t know what to make of that.

X-ing out, I access my cloud and open the folder
with the tour pictures and videos I’ve uploaded. It’s only raw footage. I
haven’t done anything with it. I’m not sure that I want to.

I set the laptop on the table between us and pull
that thick bound set of pages from my tote that Mom tucked into my suitcase
before leaving California—though why she did that is anybody’s guess.

Long and Hard
—
The Biography of Alan
Manzone
.

Tossing it aside after I found it, I told myself
nope,
not reading this,
read the first page and now I can’t stop. It’s freakishly
addictive, surprisingly insight-filled, and without a doubt not what I expected
a biography about my dad to be.

He’s led an interesting life; there’s no denying
that.

Settling back in my chair, I resume the chapter I
was reading before going to sleep. I’m halfway through it when movement beside
me causes me to lift my nose from the pages.

Shit, I forgot to log off the laptop and Graham
is invading my private shit again. My tour photos and videos are freakishly
addictive for him.

I arch a brow. “Did I say you could look at my
stuff?”

“Nope, but I never ask since this is my laptop
and we had an agreement. I see all. Know all. Or I take the laptop back.”

I grimace. Such a control freak, and it’s so
humiliating that Chrissie refused to let me leave the house with my own
technology, no data or international airtime for my phone, reducing me to beg
and wheedle a computer from Graham.

Even though he imposed rules, he was cool to let
me borrow it when I’m pretty sure he knows he’s not supposed to, so I shouldn’t
complain.

I shift my gaze away from him. “You don’t have to
worry. I’m not doing anything wrong. Jeez, why doesn’t everyone lighten up? Is
it really necessary for all of you to keep making me feel bad about what I
did?”

Graham’s features soften sympathetically. “I’m
not worried. And I’m not trying to make you feel badly. Has it ever occurred to
you that I might just like looking at your work? You have an incredible eye.”

I flush over the compliment. “It’s uncut,
unedited. I haven’t done anything with it yet.”

“Well, you should.”

I shrug. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

He leans over and turns the book in my hand.
“What are you reading?”

“The publisher galley of my dad’s biography.”

His face brightens up. “Really? Your dad did a
tell-all?  I bet that’s one page-turner of a story. I definitely would like to
cuddle up with that one when you’re through.”

Cuddle up with that one—gag me—weird joke, not
even close to funny that time, sweetheart.

Crinkling my nose, I hide the book from his gaze,
flattening it against my chest. “It’s not really like that. It’s not a
tell-all. I don’t know what to call it, but it is interesting. And don’t
mention to my dad that I have it. I don’t think he knows. My mom slipped it
into my bag before I left the ’Sades.”

“I won’t say a word,” he assures me. His eyes
begin to twinkle. “Not if you let me have it once you’re through.”

I smile. “You’re obnoxious. Do you know that?”

“I’m a fan. What can I say?”

Making a face at him, I shove the galley back
into my bag.

Breakfast arrives, he signs the bill, and then
sits back and fills two cups of coffee.

He slides one close to me.

I rest my coffee cup against my lower lip,
watching Graham clicking through my photos as he eats his breakfast, and I
lapse back into silence, feeling melancholy again.

Graham knows everything; security always knows
everything. Why don’t I just ask him? It can’t be any worse knowing the truth
than it is the suspicions and worry. If I’ve irreparably broken my parents’
marriage, hiding from it won’t change a thing.